Billiken
by LindaO
Summary: In the aftermath of "Lauren," Spencer Reid finds solace in an unexpected visitor and a strange little statue – but do either of them really exist?     Straight-up H/C interlude with an OFC resurrected from my story "Gideon's Girl".


Everything you can imagine is real.  
- Pablo Picasso

Dr. Spencer Reid closed the door of his apartment, locked and chained it as always, then turned and slumped with his back against it.

He was exhausted.

He surveyed the room wearily. It was a mess, but he could lay his hands on any single item in it without hesitation. The lights were on; he never turned them off. He hated the darkness.

Emily Prentiss rested in darkness now.

He shook his head. Emily Prentiss no longer cared if it was dark or light. She was dead and buried. It did not matter to her.

Reid straightened and took his coat off. He didn't have the energy to hang it up; he simply flung it over the chair. Later he'd hang it up. Later. Right now it took a huge effort to walk to the couch and sit down.

It had been a long, sad day. Too many people. Too many pointless conversations. Too much – everything.

He was so tired. But he didn't want to go to bed. He didn't want to sleep. He especially didn't want to dream.

He looked around the room again. Books. Computer. Television. None of them sparked even the faintest interest.

He wanted drugs. The urge was sharp, sudden. Dilaudid would take the edge off his grief. It would let him sleep, let him dream good dreams instead of nightmares. Just one dose, one time. Just for tonight. Tomorrow he would quit again. Tomorrow he could bear his life again. Just for tonight, he just needed a little for tonight …

Spencer recognized the danger immediately. It wouldn't be one fix. It would always be one more. Just one more, to get through the day, to get through the night … and then, eventually, inevitably, it would cost him everything.

He needed to get himself to a meeting.

He turned and looked at his coat. Smothering lethargy kept him where he was.

He shrugged and looked toward the window instead. The last glimmer of twilight was fading. He couldn't go to a meeting. He was too tired to even stand up. But there were no drugs in the apartment, either. As long as he stayed here, inside, he was safe from temptation.

Just stay inside. Just for tonight. Tomorrow it would be better.

The days since Emily's death had been a blur, a waking nightmare. But now that the funeral was over, reality had to return. They had tomorrow, Sunday, if no case came in, and then Monday they would all return to work, with their fractured team missing a crucial piece. Life would go on without her.

His eyes filled with tears.

He felt a headache gathering behind his eyes.

He wanted drugs. He clenched his teeth and waited. Waited for the urge to pass. Waited for the pain to stop. Waited for something. Anything.

There was a quiet knock on the door.

Reid spun his head to stare at it. It was impossible. He was sure he'd imagined it, created a knock just because he wanted something, anything, to distract him.

The knock repeated.

Reid rolled to his feet. Garcia, he mentally bet himself. She was the most likely. Maybe Morgan. Actually, it might be any member of the team. They looked out for him. They all looked out for each other. Family. Except they'd completely failed Emily.

For one instant he let himself hope it was Gideon.

He opened the peep hole and looked through.

It wasn't Gideon. Gideon didn't have eyes that big, that green. But she had been the child of Gideon's heart once …

_Reid turned to see what his new co-worker was looking at. There was a girl with very long hair, warm brown, the color of hair that got red highlights in the summer and lost them in the winter; she wore two slender braids down each side of her face, with the rest was caught back in thick ponytail. Then she turned and he saw her face – _

– _sweat appeared in a light coat on his palms, his armpits, the back of his neck, his thighs; his stomach lurched and jumped almost painfully; his heart rate increased dramatically; his pupils dilated; his saliva increased so suddenly that he had to swallow – _

_Dopamine, he identified at once. The hormone of attraction. Not uncommon, and certainly not in a man of his age. Except that it had never hit him so hard before, and so suddenly. Except that he'd never in his life been sexually attracted to a girl who looked to be no more than twelve years old. _

_The hormone waned and he felt sick. _

_And then she turned again, lifted her hand, and he realized she was not twelve. She had breasts and hips, not large but definitely defined. She was in her late teens, probably. It was only her face that looked so young. Her tiny mouth, her slender chin, her huge eyes. _

_ Besides, Morgan liked women, not children. He was ogling her, discretely, giving tacit permission for Reid to do the same. _

_At the same time, the fact that she was laughing on Jason Gideon's arm warned Reid to be _very_ discrete. _

He slammed the hatch, flipped the lock and jerked the door open. The chain was still on; the door snapped back with enough force to wrench his wrist. "Wait, wait," he begged, while he shut the door and took the chain off. "Wait."

"I'm not going anywhere," she answered calmly.

He got the door open finally and stood staring at Constance Grail.

It had been three years and nine months and sixteen days since he'd last seen her. Three years, seven months and three days since he last spoke with her one the phone. Breaking their first date because they'd gotten a case, promising he'd call her when they got back. And then not calling her because … because …

Her eyes were still huge and green. Her mouth was still small and doll-like. Her hair was still long and warm brown, caught back tonight in a single thick braid. She wore dark pants and a white blouse and a wool jacket, dark green. Flat, dark shoes. She looked older, of course, but not much. Less girl, more woman. Still rare and beautiful.

Hormones cascaded through his brain, and for a flashing instant pure joy overwhelmed his paralyzing grief. It passed as soon as it had come. He stared at her, terribly confused. Of all the people that might have come to his door –

"Hey," she said simply. "I came to take you to dinner."

His stomach churned. "I'm not hungry …"

"Have you eaten today?"

"I … um …" He'd had coffee before the funeral. There had been a gathering after, deli trays and salads and cookies. More coffee. He hadn't even tried. "No, but …"

"Get your coat."

Reid shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm really not …"

"Get your coat," she repeated firmly.

He was actually dizzy from confusion. But her tone was so firm, so no-nonsense, that his clouded mind simply surrendered to it. He got his coat.

When he'd locked the door and followed her back to the elevator, he managed to speak again. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you. I'm taking you to dinner."

"I know, but … we … I … we buried Emily Prentiss today, you know."

"I know. I'm so sorry."

Reid stared at her. She was completely calm; he was aware that his own breathing was unsteady, that his heart was pounding. He felt unreal, disconnected. He knew his disorientation must show on his face. But she didn't seem bothered by it.

Constance Grail was _here_. One of the few women he'd ever considered trying to form a relationship with. One of the _very_ few women who'd ever indicated she might be interested in the same thing. Brain damaged and certifiably demented. Gifted and smart and tormented by voices. Beautiful and sweet and sometimes achingly fragile and once astonishingly brave. He'd had a chance with her and he'd blown it. He'd never expected to see her again. He certainly _deserved_ to never see her again.

But she was here. And though he was still lost in sorrow, he was not alone.

The elevator stopped, and he followed her through the lobby and out onto the street. It was full dark now, but the traffic and the noise never stopped. She paused, looked each direction. "I won't ask what you're in the mood for. Where do you go when you don't feel like eating?"

Reid thought about it. It seemed like a very difficult question. "I don't," he finally said. "I just … don't eat."

"Figures." She considered a moment, then pointed to a little diner two blocks down. "There?"

He had walked past the diner every time he went to or from the Metro station. He'd never stopped there. "Sure. But I'm really not …"

"Hush," Constance ordered.

She started walking, and he followed. He wondered vaguely why he was taking orders from her. Perhaps only because it was easier than arguing. Perhaps because she seemed decisive at a time when he couldn't seem to decide anything for himself. Perhaps just because she was beautiful and he'd once had vague gauzy dreams about a life with her.

Or perhaps, in his current mental state, he would have listened to anyone who told him directly and firmly what to do.

In any case, he followed her to the diner. The waitress waved them in the general direction of the booths, and they sat in the far corner by the front window. Reid noticed that she let him sit with his back to the wall; he wondered if it was coincidence or some early conditioning she'd picked up from her father.

Tony Ford, Constance's father, had been killed by the serial killer Adrian Bale in Boston seven years before. He had been a BAU profiler, and a good friend of Jason Gideon. His death had been the beginning of Gideon's slow departure from the team. Reid knew every detail of the man's career and his death. He could easily correlate those details with some of the behavior patterns his daughter displayed …

"Coffee?" the waitress said at his elbow.

Reid jumped. "Uh … sure."

She poured for both of them. Her gold plastic name tag said 'Stephanie' in dark blue letters. She was small and dark-skinned, with short black hair. Older, maybe sixty, but she moved well She wore black jeans and a white blouse, covered by an apron, and white orthotic-looking shoes. A hundred years from now he'd be able to pick her out in a line-up and identify exactly the day he'd met her.

"Know what you want?" she asked.

He hadn't even looked at the menu. He didn't need to. "I'm not really hungry."

"He buried a good friend today," Constance announced. "What do you recommend in the way of comfort food?"

"Oh," Stephanie said, "I'm sorry, honey. You like turkey?"

"Sure," Reid answered vaguely.

"I got just the thing, then." She patted his shoulder. Reid flinched from the touch, but he knew her kindness was genuine.

"Same for me," Constance said. "And could you bring him a big glass of orange juice?"

"Sure thing."

The waitress went off. "Orange juice?" Reid asked dubiously.

_He carried a tall glass of orange juice, with a straw. "You should drink this."_

_"Why?"_

_"Ah … because you're in shock."_

_She frowned, confused. Then she looked to Gideon for confirmation. He nodded. She let him help her sit up, drew her feet up onto the couch and hugged her knees. _

_Gideon took the glass and held it for her… _

"Orange juice," Constance confirmed. "Your blood sugar's about sixty right now. I can tell to look at you. You must feel awful."

"I'd feel awful anyhow."

"True." He stared at her again. She glanced around the half-empty diner, then met his gaze. "What?

"What are you _doing_ here?" Reid asked again.

She folded her hands loosely on the table. "Here's the thing. Right now, there is nothing that's going to make you feel any better."

_Except narcotics_, he thought bitterly. _That would make me feel better. For a while._ He pushed the thought away, tried to focus on her words.

"Nothing I say – nothing anyone says – is going to make you hurt less. I know, believe me. I've heard it all. Later, maybe, but right now there just isn't anything." She shrugged. "The best I can do is be with you for a while." The waitress set down the orange juice; Constance smiled her thanks as the woman went away. "And get your blood sugar back to normal."

He still didn't get it. Why this woman – _this_ woman – was here, offering comfort, after so much time … "But I haven't seen you in …" he resisted the details "…years."

"So you thought I forgot about you?"

"Yes."

"No. Drink your juice."

Reid sipped a little. "I … um … I don't know what to say."

"That's okay." Constance sipped her own coffee. "You can talk to me, if you want to. Or we can sit quietly. Or I can babble at you about incidental things. Whatever you prefer."

"Babble," he answered instantly. He just wanted to hear a voice, any voice that wasn't his. "Please."

"Okay. But keep drinking."

He took a deeper drink. It was starting to taste good.

Constance leaned back, her hands cupped around her coffee mug. "Babble. I have a doctorate now, you know."

"I know." Spencer tried to smile. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"I've read your dissertation. It's brilliant."

She paused, surprised. "Really?" And then, dismissively, "It damn well ought to be. It took an extra eighteen months to complete it."

"Totally worth the time for the original sources." He took a breath. He wanted to ask her more. How she'd found so many new sources, how she'd persuaded them to talk to her. Some other time, maybe. It was too much effort now. He gave up and drank again.

"Thank you," she said again. "Anyhow, I have a real job now. I started right after the holidays at the Smithsonian. Which of course means I have the most kickin' office in the world. I go wandering at lunch every day. I figure if I work there for sixty-three years I can actually see everything. But I keep going back to the dinosaurs. They have this big T-Rex skeleton right in the center of the atrium, and these kids – you have to come and watch the kids with me. It's amazing."

"Why?"

She gestured, and he drained the rest of the juice. "Teens are unimpressed, except the rare hard-core science geek. Pre-teens, they still 'oooh' at the size sometimes. Babes in arms don't care. But there's this certain group, this three-to-five group, pre-schoolers, that are almost all scared to death."

"Sure," Reid agreed. "It's a big predator."

"Exactly. And I watch them with their parents. The ones who get picked up right away, a lot of them calm down and even start to get curious. They get over the fear. But the other group, whose parents are dismissive, who tell them there's nothing to be afraid of – they never seem to get past it. They'll fuss until they're taken out of the room. Except that one in a hundred – I love these kids, I swear – one in a hundred, the parent will say, 'Oh, there's nothing to be afraid of' and these kids whip around and give their parents this _look_. And I can hear them, I swear, I know exactly what they're thinking. Not only is there a giant predator with huge teeth standing right here, but you're telling me it's nothing to be afraid of – which can only mean that you people, who are supposed to be raising me, are _complete idiots_."

Spencer nodded. "They're probably scarred for life."

"I don't know. It'll be interesting to see if the same kids come back next year, how they do. But it's just fascinating to watch."

The waitress came back with two plates. Turkey slices over mashed potatoes, with gravy. And a side of carrots. "There you go, honey." She patted his shoulder again before she left.

Reid looked at the plate. The carrots he was going to ignore. He didn't like them. But the turkey, the potatoes – suddenly he was starving. He picked up his fork and dug in.

It was delicious.

He was chewing his third bite before he glanced up and caught Constance watching him with an expression of relief and gentle amusement. He swallowed, swiped his napkin over his mouth. "I, uh …"

"The orange juice caught you up," she said, nodding.

"Yeah." She was right, of course. The juice had raised his blood sugar just enough to let his brain know he was starving. He'd used the same approach on her once.

"Good." She gestured, and he continued to eat. "Anyhow, I think I'm developing Tony's invisible tattoo, because people seem compelled to talk to me."

He simply nodded, because his mouth was full, but he remembered. Tony Ford used to complain that he had an invisible tattoo on his forehead that read, 'Tell me the story of your life'. Reid had seen it in action a few times; they'd walk into an office or a restaurant and he'd say, 'How are you?' to someone and they would tell him – in excruciating detail. It was a useful talent for a profiler – but an annoying one for a profiler who was off-duty.

"And for some reason," Constance continued, "people seem to know that I'll know what they're saying no matter what language they say it in. I mean, I'll be at Starbucks and someone will ask me for direction in Mandarin. Like I'm giving off some sort of universal translator signal."

"You seem approachable," Reid answered. "That's enough for most tourists."

She shook her head. "I think it's more than that. I think it's an 'I have the gift of the TARDIS' vibe."

"TARDIS," he said, around potatoes. So she was a 'Doctor Who' fan, too. "That's a beautiful analogy."

"It is. Much less icky than the Babblefish analogy I used to have."

He smiled, but kept eating. First Doctor Who and now _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. Why in the world wasn't he dating this woman?

And then he remembered why, and the smile died.

But she was there anyhow. And the food was exactly what he hadn't known he'd wanted. He ate and he listened to her talk. She didn't expect him to join the conversation. She just babbled as promised, soothing him with sound. It was precisely what he needed.

The minute he ate the last bite of turkey, the waitress swept his plate away and put a new one down.

He glanced at his companion's plate. She'd barely touched it. "You should eat," he said.

Constance shrugged. "I ate hours ago."

"Oh." He paused, then continued eating. "I still don't know why you're here."

"Do you feel a little better now?"

"Yes."

"That's why I'm here."

"That's not what I meant."

"You're thinking too hard. I'm here. That's all."

It wasn't 'all'. He ought to be able to figure out her motivation. No one tracks down a guy they almost dated once four years ago on a day they know he's miserable, for no reason at all.

_Cooper walked them to the front door and watched them out. Reid moved slowly, half-carrying the girl. He hadn't heard the storm door shut; he could feel the man's eyes on his back. He hoped to hell it wasn't the man's gun he felt. But the truck was there, at the end of the street. The team was there, they had him, they had his back. And her back. They walked down the driveway, reached the front sidewalk. Almost there. Just get her to the car … _

_Constance stopped in her tracks and turned to him. Her pupils were huge, and her body shook like a leaf. "How long?" she said quietly._

_Reid kept his arms around her, loosely. Ready, he realized, to throw her to the ground at the first sign of attack from the house. "How long what?"_

_ "Until they get here. The cops."_

_ "Two minutes, tops."_

_ "Is he still watching us?"_

_ He resisted the urge to look back towards the house. "Count on it."_

_ Tears of fear gathered in her eyes, but she resisted his subtle pressing toward the car. "If she's still alive … if he'll watch us …"_

_ "Until we leave," Reid agreed. He nodded, understanding. "If you don't get in that car, Gideon will shoot me."_

_ She took a deep breath. Then she put both palms on his chest and pushed away from him_.

He had helped save her mother from a serial killer. But that was his job. And whatever transference there had been was long gone. Certainly standing her up for their dinner date would have killed its last traces …

The waitress was there again. "Dessert, honey?"

Reid looked up at her. "Um …"

"Apple cobbler, ice cream?"

"Sure."

The woman glanced at Constance. "You?"

"No, I'm good."

She refilled their coffee cups and went away. They sat in silence for a moment. "More babbling," Reid requested.

Constance smiled and started talking again.

She talked through dessert, through two more cups of coffee. Stephanie left the check with the last refill. Reid reached for it, and Constance slapped his hand lightly. "Mine."

"I can't …"

"It's 2011. You can."

She pulled out her credit card and set it on top of the check. When the waitress came back for it, she said quietly, "Those guys over in the other corner? Put their tab on here, too."

Stephanie glanced over, and so did Reid. There were four very young men in Army fatigues crowded into the booth. "You sure?" the waitress asked. "They've been putting it away like farm hands."

"I'm sure. Just don't tell them, okay?"

She grinned conspiratorially. "Sure thing, honey."

Reid waited until she was gone again. "You do that all the time, don't you?"

"I do, yes."

"It's nice." _So it's not just me_, he thought. _She finds charity cases all over the place._ Oddly, that made him feel better.

She signed both checks when they came, tucked her credit card away, chugged the last of her coffee. "Ready?"

"Sure." Spencer's heart sank. He didn't want to go home. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want her to go away. And he couldn't say any of that. He stood up and followed her outside.

"Want to walk?" Constance asked.

"Yes, please."

She took his hand and they walked, not quickly, in the opposite direction from his apartment. "It's weird," he said. "I don't generally enjoy physical contact with people."

Her hand slipped out of his. "Sorry."

"No, don't." Reid caught her hand again, held it firmly. "I like this, that's the point. It's just – not something I usually like. But this is good."

"Okay."

They walked for perhaps ten minutes in silence. It was okay, Reid sensed, that he didn't talk. She wasn't uncomfortable in the silence. She was just there with him. He felt better than he had all day. The food had helped, a lot. His incipient headache had retreated and his thinking had cleared. He was still full of grief, but it wasn't overwhelming any more.

And though a small corner of his mind still wanted to retreat behind the fog of narcotics, he felt confident that he could resist now.

It was an impressive trick to have performed with two plates of turkey and a walk in the dark.

_Why am I not dating this woman?_ he thought again. And this time the answer didn't seem quite as obvious.

"There was this terrorist," Spencer began, with a suddenness that surprised him. "His name was Ian Doyle. He had been with Provisional IRA. And before Prentiss came to the BAU, she'd been undercover with a team that captured him …"

He went on. He told her everything. Every detail, every conversation. Things that were probably supposed to be secret. Things like the dead child that he probably should have left out. Everything from the first time he heard Prentiss say the name Lauren Reynolds right through the funeral. He told her about his doubts, his anger at the secrets that had been kept from the team, his grief. Most of all his grief. And his worries about the future, about the team, bringing someone new in, getting to know them – letting them get to know him.

He told her everything. It took hours. And Constance walked by his side and held his hand and listened.

When he was done, finally, when he'd run out of words, she turned and put her arms around him.

It was the same thing JJ had done at the hospital. Not talking, now, just holding him. He felt the warmth of her body through their coats. He could feel the warmth of her caring through his pain. But she was not JJ, and it was different, too.

He never wanted to let her go.

And the minute he realized that, he slipped away from her.

Constance took his hand again. "You're tired," she said.

"I am _so_ tired," Reid admitted.

"Let's get you home, then."

He looked around. He hadn't paid attention to where they were going while he talked; it hadn't mattered. They had walked a very long way. But Constance had been keeping track, evidently. They were only four blocks from his apartment.

They walked in comfortable silence again.

At the door, Spencer hesitated, confused. He didn't want her to leave. He didn't know how to ask her to stay without implying something much more than he really meant. And he was exhausted.

Constance said, "I'll stay until you're sleeping."

She used that absolutely certain tone again, and he gave in to it again. Not that he'd really wanted to resist. "Okay." He took off his coat and threw it on the chair. "I don't remember you being this assertive," he said sleepily.

"It's the new degree. It came with a truckload of assertive."

"Mine didn't."

"Then you went to the wrong school. Schools."

He sat on the couch and kicked off his shoes. There was a blanket there, and a pillow; he slept on the couch on a regular basis. He pretended he wouldn't have nightmares that way, though that had never proven to be true. "Nightmares," he sighed.

"Not tonight," she answered, in that same certain tone. "You're too tired for any nightmares tonight."

Constance patted the pillow, and Reid lay back uneasily. "Will you leave the lights on, please?" he asked.

He was afraid she'd ask for an explanation. Nothing sounded more ridiculous than a grown man admitting he was afraid of the dark. But she simply nodded as she covered him with the blanket. She sat on the floor beside him. "Here." She reached behind her head and pulled off a silver chain with a small white pendant. "This will keep the nightmares away."

He took the necklace carefully. The pendant was a figurine, slightly rough, carved ivory or bone. At first he thought it was an adipose baby. On closer study, though, it looked like an imp of some kind. It had a pointy head and a big smile.

"It's a billiken," she said. "It's copied from the Japanese god Joss …"

"The god of things as they ought to be," Reid said. He wanted to stay awake now, but the sleep was coming at him like a dark wave. He always had trouble falling asleep; now he could barely keep his eyes open. "And also the billiken is the mascot for the University of St. Louis."

"Yeah, but theirs are ugly."

The grief, the walking, the talking. Sleep was pulling him under. He tried to give the necklace back. "I can't …"

She folded his hand over the figure. "You can. I'll get another one." She leaned and kissed him gently on the forehead. "Go to sleep, Spencer."

The wave was darker, closer. Irresistable. "Thank …"

He closed his eyes.

". . .you."

He opened his eyes and brightness stabbed them. He squeezed them shut, then opened them carefully again. It was sunlight, jabbing through the window at him. But that was impossible, it was three in the morning, he'd only shut his eyes for a second and …

Spencer sat up quickly. "Constance?"

There was no answer. She was gone.

He glanced at the clock. It was 9:27. That was impossible. He'd never slept that long at a stretch. But he hadn't been asleep. He'd only closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them six hours and twenty-one minutes had passed.

And the woman with the green eyes was gone.

Spencer closed his eyes and sat very still. "No," he said firmly. But the fear rose up in him anyhow, like bile, like sludge.

He'd come home from the funeral. Taken off his coat, sat down on the couch. Felt a headache start. Desperately wished for something to happen, something to take his mind off his misery. And then there was a knock on the door, and a woman he hadn't seen for nearly four years was there, offering to take him to dinner? It was impossible. It could not have happened.

It had been a hallucination. He was sure of it.

And it had all been so very real.

Which was, of course, the nature of hallucinations. They seemed absolutely real in the mind of the person who created them.

In the mind of the schizophrenic.

He'd seen his mother lost in the grip of such powerful hallucinations that she could not remember to feed herself – or her small son. He'd seen her drift for days, so lost in her dream world that she could not perceive anything in the real world around her. He'd seen her decline, more and more into the world of her mind.

He felt ice in his veins. If Constance Grail had not been here, then he'd had the most complete and detailed hallucination in his whole life, including the drug-induced ones. And he was undeniably mentally ill.

Prentiss' death. The last stressor for an already troubled mind.

Spencer shook with terror. If it hadn't been real, then he was lost.

"Billiken," he said suddenly. He threw the blanket off the couch and shook it. No necklace. He ran his hands over the cushions swiftly, even the ones where his feet had been. He checked the pillow, and the blanket again, in case it has snagged somewhere. He threw the cushions off and checked under then, jamming his hands into the cracks of the couch. He lay flat on the floor to look underneath, and when he couldn't see well enough he stood up and pushed the whole thing over.

There was no necklace and no billiken.

She had never been there.

He was going mad.

No.

He had already _gone_ mad.

He began to shake again. He felt so cold. So damn cold.

It wasn't fair.

And the team. What about the team? He couldn't leave them now, not so soon after Prentiss. Maybe he could keep it together for just a little while. Just a few cases, and then he'd tell someone. He could …

It was, he knew, just as dangerous as his fantasy about just one hit of Dilaudid.

If he could no longer distinguish reality from fantasy, he could not go on any more cases. He could not carry a gun. Or a badge.

He could go to the diner. The waitress would recognize him. There would be a record of Constance's credit card, with the meal for them and the second for the soldiers in the corner. Yes. He could prove she'd been here …

But if she'd been here, the billiken would still be here.

And Stephanie – if she even existed – would stare at him blankly, and there would be no credit card record.

So damn cold. So damn cold.

He needed to call – someone. He didn't even know who. Hotchner? Probably the best choice. Hotch would get him help, get him through his, to wherever it led. _I can be roommates with my mom._ But Hotch had so much grief of his own …

"I don't know what to do," Spencer said out loud. Tears rolled down his face unchecked. "I don't know what to do."

A shudder took him, a spasm so hard it hurt. He was freezing. He knew it was shock. He didn't know what to do about it.

He heard water running in the distance. The upstairs neighbor was taking a shower.

_Shower, yes. A shower would be warm. Soothing. If nothing else, I'll be clean when they come to get me. And God only knows when I'll be able to take a shower in private again._

He walked slowly to the bathroom. He was shaking so hard that it hurt in his joints. _Shower. Yes. Soothing shower._ With trembling fingers, he unbuttoned his dress shirt – he'd worn it to the funeral, been wearing it for a full day now, definitely time for a shower – and pulled it off.

There was a slithering noise and a very quiet thump on the floor.

Reid looked down. In a tiny pile at his feet was a silver chain and a tiny white figurine.

He slid to the floor beside it. The tears continued to flow, but they were different now. His body felt weak with relief. He reached out the grab the necklace, and his hand was shaking so badly he couldn't pick it up. He took a deep breath and tried again.

The billiken was noticeably warm in his hand. Constance's gift, to safeguard his dreams …

_Idiot. It's warm because it was inside your shirt._

Reid shook his head. Logic be damned. It was warm because Constance had given it to him. She had been there. She had fed him, she had walked with him, she had listened to his grief. She had been with him and gotten his blood sugar back to normal, because those were the only things she could do that were actually helpful. And she had given him a silly little figurine that let him sleep.

And he was not losing his mind.

At least not yet.

Spencer clambered stiffly to his feet. He hung the necklace carefully on the knob of the medicine cabinet and continued to peel off his clothes. _I should send her something_, he thought as he turned on the faucet. _A thank-you note, at least. Maybe a gift._ He wondered what was appropriate. Flowers were too cliché, and a little too – personal. _Something that said 'thank you for being there' and not 'I have a massive case of transference that makes me think I'm in love with you'._ He had the sense that this would be a delicate problem for someone who actually had social skills and experience – which left it completely beyond him.

He stepped into the shower and let the hot water pound on his back. Clearly he needed advice. _Prentiss will know exactly the right thing_, he thought. _I'll call her. But not this early. After noon on Sunday is the rule. _

And then he remembered, and he put his head down and let the water mix with his tears.

The grief was hard and real, but it was only grief now, not fear as well, and it could not overwhelm him.

There is only one difference between a madman and me. I am not mad.  
- Salvador Dali


End file.
